This winter I will trim the hedge. I will prune the fruit trees. I might work on the lawn, left over the years to the childhood ravages of wrestling, football, cricket and rugby, of golf divots and tunnels to Australia. I will chop the wood, lain drying by the back fence for longer than a season. I will fix the gutter by the door to the garden.
This winter I will go for walks that make my cheeks glow, returning to steamed up spectacles, defrosting in front of the fire. I will consume vast amounts of crumpets dripping with butter and polish off bottles of wine in the kitchen whilst preparing the Sunday roast.